Page 136 of Changing the Playbook
Mike.
He’s slumped on a bench near his locker, still in his gear except for the jersey that hangs behind him like a ghost. Sweat plasters his dark hair to his skull. An angry red welt screams across his thigh where that slap shot nailed him, and there’s a gash on his back where he must have copped a stick at some point.
His beautiful hands—the ones that held mine through Mom’s relapse, that know exactly how to touch me, that write terrible poetry and reads it without fear—work at his skate laces with the precise movements of someone preparing for a funeral.
And the sight of him taking off those skates cracks something open inside me.
I cross the room in five strides, tears already burning my eyes. I know the other guys are watching me, judging me, probably having put two and two together about why their captain is a dead man walking. And when Mike’s head snaps up, the exhaustion and sadness in his face nearly drops me.
But I reach past him, yank his jersey off the hook and shove the jersey against his chest. “You put this back on. Right now.”
He grabs it, staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “Sophie, what do you?—”
I grab his face with both hands. His stubble scratches my palms—rough and real and mine. “I saw everything.” My voice cracks but I push through, aware of twenty sets of eyes on us but not giving a single fuck. “The zombie in first period. Just going through the motions because I killed the thing that makes you you.”
His jaw goes rigid under my hands. “Soph?—”
“Then I saw the rest.” A sob escapes despite my best efforts. “I saw what you really are when you stop pretending to be okay with half a life. You’re not just good at hockey, Mike. You ARE hockey. You’re art on ice. You’re their captain, the guy they’d follow into hell because they know you’d lead them back out.”
Behind me, Maine mutters, “Fucking right.”
“You taught me to try new things, to be brave enough to be terrible at stuff, but it was okay because we did them together.” I’m crying openly now, my thumbs painting wet streaks across his cheekbones. “You helped me and encouraged me and warmed me and loved me…”
Mike lets out an exhausted sigh. “I still do, Sophie, that’s why?—”
“When Mom relapsed, I panicked.” I continue, not daring to let him speak until I’m done, because I’m shit scared he mightdeny me, deny this, and retreat back into his shell. “I grabbed onto you so tight I ended up drowning you, making demands that weresofucking unreasonable andknowingyou’d comply.”
My hands shake as I suck in a breath. Time to jump off the cliff.
“So here’smynew thing: trust.” The word tastes like freedom. “Trusting that we’re strong enough to handle whatever comes. Trusting that two people who love each other can figure out the logistics. Trusting that keeping you in a cage would kill the man I fell in love with in the first place.”
I release his face only to grab his hands, pressing them between mine. “Call your agent tomorrow. Tell him Mike Altman is back on the market. And I happen to know your coach, and I’m going to be telling him you’renotdone for this season.”
The locker room erupts in gasps and “holy shit” and “did she just?—”
I find my dad’s eyes. He’s watching us with an expression I can’t read, but he’s smiling. Then I look back to Mike again. “We’ll figure it out. Long distance if we have to. Whatever it takes. Because you helped me fly, and now I want you to fly with me, and I’m done being the weight around your ankles.”
Mike hasn’t moved. Hasn’t breathed. His dark eyes search mine like he’s looking for the catch, the fine print, the part where I take it all back. And, suddenly, I realize this is what he must have been like last year, during his injury and before his therapy.
“Mike, please, come back to me. I’m so sorry.” The words barely squeeze past the knot in my throat. “I was so scared of losing you.”
Something shifts in Mike’s expression. The exhaustion cracks, and underneath there’s something raw and desperate. It’s like I see him emerging from the darkness and into the light, all played out on his face, and then he moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move off the ice.
One second I’m standing there with snot probably running down my face, the next I’m in his lap with his mouth crushing mine and his hands fisted in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Twenty hockey players explode into cheers and wolf whistles.
Mike pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine. “You’re everything,” he says, his voice wrecked. “Thank you for not making me choose.”
“Mike.” Dad’s voice cuts through the celebration like a referee’s whistle, serious and somber.
We both turn to find him standing three feet away, arms crossed. But there’s definitely moisture in his eyes and his mouth is fighting a smile as he looks between us. It’s clear the serious tone was just theatrics, because all the other guys are smiling as well.
“I expect you at the next practice,” he says. “We’ve got a championship to win.”
Mike’s arms tighten around me. “Yes, sir.”
“And Sophie?” The smile wins. “Next time maybe wait until they’ve showered?”
The tension dissolves instantly. Mike’s chest shakes with something between laughter and relief as he buries his face in my neck. His breath comes in waves against my skin, hot and unsteady. Someone cranks the music back up and the party resumes with twice the energy.
